This Mess We're In
by kiyaarthesamurai
Summary: Steve is a troll, Tony is obliging. Everyone gets done. Set in that fictional interval during Secret Avengers where Steve is a Commander and he and Tony are actually on speaking terms. Mild BDSM. Rough Sex. Good.


Tony's hair looks absolutely exquisite.

Everything is exquisite, the sauce made of shallots, the way there's dust in the air in the street outside and the sunset kicks up ambient purple, the way Tony has been absently thumbing the knot on his tie all evening and by now his collar is about two inches more open than it was when they sat down to dinner.

Steve shifts in his chair and looks at the hollow of Tony's throat.

"Are you having dessert?" Steve asks, very, very evenly.

Tony pays _attention_, when he talks. Stills his hands, stops glancing around like he's waiting for Hydra agents to burst in at any moment, _looks_. Steve is wearing a tie, and the charcoal suit Tony loves to see him in, because they so rarely have the chance to do this. Steve so rarely has the opportunity to initiate things like this.

Tony grins like he's the one indulging _Steve_, flashing a slow grin that says he'd love to be blowing him in the bathroom.

Tony leans back in his chair, wipes his mouth like a socialite, flashes Steve a slow grin that says he'd love to blow him in the bathroom.

"Are _you_ having dessert?" Tony counters. Tony's scarfed his salmon down and is nibbling at the elaborately carved cucumber garnish.

Steve orders crème brulée,

"Are you buttering me up for something?" Tony asks absently, when it comes, already reaching for his spoon. He taps on the crust of it.

"You love crème brulée," Steve says, because he doesn't need to butter Tony up and evasion drives him up the wall. Squirming becomes him. Besides, it's only fair. They'll be at the hotel within the hour; it's consolation enough to imagine the look on Tony's face when he sees it.

Good.

As if on cue, Tony sighs and preens and fidgets, so Steve waits until he's looking and then shoves his spoon in his mouth and drags it over his bottom lip.

Tony sits up straighter in his chair.

"Stop that," Tony says. "It's indecent."

"Yes," Steve agrees. "Though it's possible you're just standing in the gutter."

"That's belligerent," Tony says. "Do it again."

"Eat your crème brulée, Tony," Steve says.

"Ok," Tony says, and makes a show of putting a spoonful of it in his mouth. "I'm listening."

"We're staying in your penthouse," Steve says, and carves a sliver of it for himself. "At the James."

"I have a meeting tomorrow," Tony says, after a few seconds' silence.

"No you don't."

"_Steve._ I am doing the thing. The responsible thing, the CEO thing, I am a proud CEO and I have a meeting tomorrow at 8:30 in Seattle and –"

"I have level 7 national security clearance," Steve says, and scoops half of the whipped cream onto his spoon, to Tony's obvious dismay. "You don't have a meeting tomorrow."

"Well," Tony says, and licks his spoon. "How'd you get Pepper to agree to that?"

"Do you want the strawberry?" Steve asks.

Tony drops his voice a pitch or two. "What are you planning, Commander?"

"I'm eating the strawberry," Steve says.

"Eat the strawberry," Tony says with a smirk. "You can have dessert later."

Steve has eight filthy things to say to that, but he can't say anything, because his body is miles ahead of him.

"Don't do that," Steve says, and flags down the waiter for the check.

"No," Tony says reasonably, and Steve looks up from under his eyelashes and crosses his legs and swipes the check away before Tony can get to it. "Steve, we're at Zen."

"Yes," Steve says, and slides his wallet open and his card between the folds of leather. "And you're broke."

"Patently false," Tony says. "Resilient–"

"Stop," Steve says, "I'm paying. I have a Swiss bank account, now. Commander's salary, Tony."

Tony, because Tony is a shit and hasn't made the tabloids for anything other than being wildly and perplexingly successful (especially after his stocks tanked after the Osborn bullshit), uses one of his shoes to nudge at Steve's crotch under the table.

"You keep your money in Switzerland?"

Steve, because Steve has superhuman reflexes and isn't going to do this in a five-star restaurant, grabs Tony's ankle and tries not to enjoy the strained-shocked-betrayed look on Tony's face too much. Thank god for fine linen tablecloths.

"Do you remember the discussion we had," Steve says darkly, "about the time and place for exhibitionism?" It's not really loud enough to carry to the next table, but loud enough to make Tony glance around. "Behave," he mouths.

Tony leans forward, both of his hands clasped on the table. "Make me," he mouths back.

Steve pulls out one of his business cards (Commander Steve Rogers, _Specialist_) and scrawls a note for Tony's eyes only with the pen for the check.

_I'll fuck you in the alley if you can't be patient._

He slides it across the table and snatches the strawberry off the plate and enjoys the shade of rose Tony's face turns.

He has no intention of doing anything of the sort, but.

* * *

Tony jumps him as soon as they make it through the doors.

It's nice to indulge him. Nice that they can, nice that it feels so natural, to let his hands fall to Tony's waist and steer, nice that he is distractingly, painfully hard at the smell of Tony's cologne and way his hair feathers around his ears when he dips his face to suck at Tony's neck.

That's what this night is about, anyway. Tony has cleared his schedule for him, which is novel. He's in Seattle most of the time, now, building cars with his secret team and pretending it doesn't kill him not to be out there being Iron Man with the rest of them every day. Steve's cleared his, too, handed off command to Natasha until Wednesday. She's looking into some arms deal in Turkmenistan, but he shouldn't be thinking about that right now, he should be thinking about–

"What are you doing," Tony whispers in his ear while he kicks off his shoes. Tony winds his fingers into Steve's lapels, gently enough because Tony appreciates Steve's suit, firm enough to feel like he's making some kind of headway against Steve's 240 pounds of unrepentant musculature. It's adorable, frankly, the way he tilts up on his toes to settle that inch of a discrepancy they have between them. "What's in your big blond strategist's head," Tony mouths into his ear, and his fingers are already everywhere, on Steve's belt, under his jacket and over his shirt and brushing against his nipples, snaking down to unbutton buttons and trace the lines of Steve's ass through his pants.

"Ah," Steve says, when Tony makes it into his boxer-briefs and freezes because he's found red lace.

"And what's this," Tony says, and thumbs at Steve's underwear.

Steve opens his mouth to say that this is part of his plan, but it sounds dumb and Tony is a shit and he's already running his fingers over the lace and down, down, down to the dampness that must be starting at the tip of him, Tony is reaching around to feel whether it's a jock strap or a thong or something sordid and Steve feels hot, feels his shoulders warming with his cheeks.

"I cannot believe you," Tony says. He's probably fractionally disappointed. He was probably well on his way to blowing Steve against the counter before they even made it into the suite proper.

"Really?" Steve cups his face and tries to kiss him again, but Tony just wriggles his fingers down the line of Steve's spine, into the cleft of his ass and _tugs_ on the base of the plug there.

"Nnnnn," Steve gasps. He's pretty proud of how unassuming he'd been at dinner. He's even prouder he's still standing.

Tony is a fucking tease, so he pulls it out to the widest part and lets Steve's body suck it back in.

"Don't do that," Steve says, when he's done gasping, "I have all these plans, and you're not naked yet."

"'I'll fuck you in the alley?'" Tony scoffs, and slides his other hand down over Steve's cock to cup his balls through his pants. "You're a troll, _lies_–"

"Misdirection," Steve grunts, "Did you not get the memo, I'm a professional spy now–"

"Professional _troll_," Tony says, and plays Steve's foreskin over the head of his cock.

Steve holds him at arm's length and does his best impression of restraint. "You're not going to have anything to play with if you don't stop," he says, twitching in his pants.

"It's not much of a challenge," Tony snorts. "Am I supposed to pretend you're done after the first one? Should I turn around while you arrange yourself on the bed? Do you want me to touch you like you're precious?"

Steve's fingers come up to unknot his tie. "I thought you could hit me, actually."

"Commander," Tony says in ersatz shock.

Steve watches his lips for a minute, wonders if he should just slam Tony against the wall right now, and then regains some measure of restraint and starts to shuck off his Armani suit.

Tony would bristle at the treatment his finery is getting, normally, but Steve moves slowly enough that Tony just watches, rapt, frozen in slow contrapposto as Steve peels his jacket off and tosses it over the back of the sofa.

His hands catch up a few seconds later and then Steve doesn't have to do anything but sigh when Tony's hands work at the buttons of his shirt, the artful way he undoes each of them and then leaves his shirt half-tucked while he draws Steve's belt very deliberately out of its loops. Tony sidles up against him like a cat, presses as much of them together as he can, crotch to chest, while his hands slide Steve's shirt halfway down his arms so he's caught, so he can't do anything but wait for Tony to finish tasting his skin along the line of his collarbone.

Tony starts to suck, and Steve starts to pant.

"I love undressing you," Tony says, licking up to Steve's throat, wrapping an arm around the back of Steve's bare neck like he's never going to let go. "I love your skin," he says, and one of his hands slides over his chest to tweak at his nipple, and there he goes, he feels himself melting into something warm and hazy instead of the rock everyone always expects him to be, and Tony loves his skin, and he wants to tell Tony that he loves Tony's hair and Tony's mouth and the shit he says when he's being fucked and the way his hands scurry over everything they touch, but words are escaping him and then Tony grasps the plug again and fucks it into him.

"Ah, _Tony_, pluh," Steve says articulately, and buries his face in Tony's neck.

"Why do you have candles in your bag," Tony whispers. "That's not usually your M.O." He slides Steve's shirt down his arms and runs his hand boldly beneath the hem of Steve's pants, and Steve is so hard he's clenching, he's glad he brought Viagra for Tony, he's going to be so hard he's crying by the end of the night –

"I want to spoil you," Steve murmurs against his ear. "There's a Jacuzzi–"

"I want you in nothing but these," Tony declares, and slides a single finger in under the lace.

"Yes," Steve says, _yes_, who says that, but Tony is dragging his pants down and kicking them over his feet and away, and Tony's suit jacket is cold on his skin, he's wearing too many clothes –

"Can you take this–"

"No," Tony says, and cradles him, the weight of him, "You're the only one that needs to be naked right now." Steve jerks in Tony's hand. "I thought you were being nice because you were gonna ream me," Tony whispers, and _strokes_ with his hand settled at the nape of Steve's neck. "I thought you were wining and dining because you were gonna take me back here and fuck me through to tomorrow."

Steve ruts against Tony's leg, and Tony's hand stops doing the delicious things it's doing.

"That's not what you want, is it," Tony says.

No, it's not, Steve wants to be a civilian for a night, depowered, not responsible, wants the gleam of polished metal and the smell of leather and sweat and the Quincarrier bridge gone from him, wants to wrap himself up in Tony and fool himself into thinking he never has to get up.

He loves the work, he does – or he loves it enough to do it, but it's lonely and dark and Tony isn't there to remind him how rewarding it is.

No, that's not what he wants.

"Don't be a shit," Steve mutters, still clinging to Tony's perfectly tailored suit like he's desperate, and right now he is, he would do a lot of things if Tony would touch him again. "I know you like me like this," he grunts, slick-mouthed and panting.

"I want to do filthy things to you," Tony whispers, the edges of his beard just trailing against the line of Steve's jaw.

It's enough that some obscene noise makes it out of his mouth, and Tony's smile turns that much more vicious against his ear. "Tell me," Steve breathes.

Tony slips a hand between Steve's legs to cradle his balls through the lace and leads him into the bathroom like that, and Steve goes like a well-trained pet.

It's humiliating, it's _fawning_, but it's what Tony likes. Tony is almost as big as he is – not bulky, like Steve is, but well muscled. Tall. Dangerous-looking. Steve loves him like this, in a suit, a few hours into an engagement when his tie is starting to come loose and he's been absentmindedly rolling up his shirtsleeves for an hour. Tony can look impeccable in gym clothes, though, just as easily as he can look like a Forbes Titan. Tony is a work of art, just like everything he makes, and sometimes Steve thinks about it and can't believe they're actually sleeping together.

Tony doesn't touch his cock, but he can feel the lace stretched taut, pulling away from his thighs.

He fumbles with the faucet, and this was supposed to be done carefully, precisely, and he was going to sit in the jets while Tony climbed into his lap to play. Tony won't keep his hands off, though, running his palms up Steve's flanks while Steve bends over the lip of the Jacuzzi, tracing the dark swell of his balls from behind him, running a hand between his thighs like he has every intention of taking Steve on his terms.

"Stop," Steve breathes, fiddling with the temperature, "I can't concentrate when you do that, I need to–"

"I know," Tony says, smug as all hell, and the flare of humiliation that lights Steve's face makes his cock jerk. "Did you have a terrible mission," Tony says, while his fingers press their way around his ass, under the strap of lace. "Did you ask Sharon about your feelings again?"

Fine. It's going to turn into Tony's show, anyway.

It's bait, and Steve checks the temperature of the water and grabs at the bottles he's pre-set instead of taking it. Patchouli. Sandalwood. He goes for the Sandalwood. He'll smell like an expensive whore when Tony gets around to fucking him.

"I didn't mean it," Tony murmurs against the nape of his neck, when Steve doesn't answer.

"You did, but it's fine," Steve rasps, because it is, because Sharon probably knows exactly what he's doing right now and she's probably blowing – Tim – whatever the fuck his name is – in the shower right now, and Tony's lost his shirt somewhere. Everything is right with the world, right now, in the confines of this ridiculous hotel room, and Steve can feel the heat of his bare skin, the slightest rasp of Tony's hair on him. He's so _hot_, so solid, and Steve arches back a little and wonders if it makes him desperate that he's seriously considering begging Tony to fuck him before any of this gets of the ground.

"Take the plug out," Steve gasps, when Tony wraps his hand around the base of Steve's unmanageable erection and rubs himself against Steve's ass.

"Why?" Tony says, reasonably. "You've worn it for –" Tony looks at his watch. "Three hours, now."

Steve is twisting his neck around and backing into Tony's dress pants before he knows it. He can feel how hard Tony is, feels the stiffness of him beneath his zipper, and he pulls at Tony's bottom lip with his mouth. It's not out of the question. Steve knows how to convince him. Tony swipes his tongue over Steve's, and somehow he's managing to taste like mint instead of salmon, and it's so good, the way Tony wraps his arms around Steve from behind, Tony has wonderful arms, Tony is so broad and solid and Steve _wants_ him –

"I'll get the candles," Tony says, into Steve's ear. "Get in, I'll be right back. Don't touch."

Steve peels off the lace, lowers himself in, turns the faucet off with one of his toes when the tub is about 2/3 full. There's a button, somewhere, for the jets, but he can't care about that, he feels himself, just the base of his cock, it's not touching, not really, but he wants to stay hard for Tony and the water feels so good on his skin –

Tony comes back in, his arms full of candles and a lighter between his teeth, naked now, his cock half-hard between his legs. He puts bunches of them on the counter, beside the lip of the Jacuzzi, elegant, always, bending to bite at Steve's mouth and fuck his tongue all the way in past Steve's teeth, and it's what Steve wants, when Tony bites at him and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth like he _owns_ Steve. Steve is so grateful that he just goes boneless in the water, grateful that all he has to do is wear a plug and Tony can make the leaps to what he needs, grateful he doesn't have to be pushy, right now, he will be, if that's what Tony wants, but Tony is sliding a hand up through his hair and wrenches his head back –

"So, you're putting on a show," Tony says, more amusement than condemnation, and climbs into Steve's lap. Steve's hands come up automatically, because he doesn't know how not to find Tony's waist, the perfect curve of his ribs, the firm lines of his abs and his tiny dark nipples. He's shivering a little, and he leans forward in the water, dips his neck to press his cheek to Steve's.

"If I come now, I'll have to nap before we go again," Tony breathes, inches from his ear, miles of muscle and composure except for his cock sliding against Steve's stomach. He reaches a hand between them, fist full of shower gel, and _oh_. "Why don't you convince me you have something better to offer me?"

"Tony," Steve says, and his hands come up again, his thumbs rubbing smears of patchouli-fluff into Tony's ribcage, right under his nipples, and his skin looks _gold_ in this lighting –

"Plans, Commander," Tony purrs, and Steve thrusts up against Tony's cock, because he's lost control over most of his body.

Tony splays a hand out over his chest and throws his head back and rolls his hips like a piece of art amidst the patchouli and the foam and the steam.

It's a statement; Tony does nothing idly. He leans in to kiss Steve's jaw, his cheek with the barest hint of stubble, the line of his chin, not his lips. "Tell me," Tony says, and flicks his thumb under the head of Steve's cock, deliberate, eyes gleaming, and Steve closes his eyes and presses, he needs to be closer, it's all so hot and slick and Tony smells like sweat and soap and expensive cologne starting to rub away.

"I want you to fuck me," Steve begs into Tony's neck.

"Yes," Tony says, and runs his thumb down Steve's neck. "Tell me all about it."

"Like you mean it," Steve says. "Rough. Whatever you – _gh –_ we have this for the weekend, Tony, we don't have to leave, you can leave marks, you can–"

"Do you want me to leave marks?" Tony says, deadly smooth, and he runs his thumb over Steve's bottom lip.

"Nnn, I don't, _hh_, stop, I'm trying to – _Tony–_"

"Use your words," Tony whispers, and suckles at the wet skin under his ear.

"Yes," Steve gasps, "no, I just – I want to be sore," he manages, and Tony is rubbing gel into his skin, Tony is angling his head just so, Tony is an artist Steve pretends to be and Tony can handle him for the rest of his life, it's fine, it's perfect, he wants it –

"You're very hard," Tony says, hushed, and he leans forward, like he can't be bothered, like this is a _favor_. "You like it when I call you Commander." He daubs more of the patchouli stuff into his hands and lathers it up.

Steve closes his eyes and wonders if Tony can see how flushed he is in the candlelight.

"I brought the uniform," Steve says.

Tony sighs and shifts and adjusts himself. "Nnnn," he moans, and sidles back up to Steve after a second's air, wends his hands around behind Steve's back, slides them up and down his hips and massages his ass. "I'm really trying, Steve, you can't fucking – _say _things like that, unless there's gonna be follow-up–"

Steve grasps him, pulls him in, all of him, clutches at his back and rests Tony's full weight against him. "It's been a tense week," he says, and toys with Tony's hair, and Tony is still lathering him, absurdly, like grooming in the face of arousal is a matter of honor. "Do you know how many millions in property damage I had to explain to S.H.I.E.L.D. after the Bosnia thing? Valkyrie ruined most of the engine apparatus," he says, "and you weren't there to fix it."

He means it to be idle, but the pang that shoots through him is unexpected.

"No shop talk," Tony breathes, "Though I'm always happy to fix your quaint little vessel, you know that–"

"I need you to damage me," Steve says, because he needs to be clear about this. "I do not want choices, I do not want you to be _nice_," he hisses, and claws at Tony's back, "you can't hurt me, so none of that bullshit, you're not fucking me in the suit, you couldn't break my bones if you tried–"

"I'm never nice–"

"I want you to tell me I'm depraved," Steve hisses into Tony's mouth.

"Do you think this would ruin your public image," Tony says merrily, "if this got out–"

Steve snorts. "What public image?"

Tony's stillness is barely noticeable, but he's kind enough to answer with his tongue thrust into Steve's mouth instead of the riposte he could be making, and Steve is grateful.

"Will you bring me breakfast tomorrow?" Tony says, his tongue still firmly running along the edge of Steve's mouth.

"No, room service will bring you breakfast," Steve says, and this _man_, he wants to be begging and he's on the cusp of laughter, instead.

Joy, that's what it is, that he's feeling, right now.

"I love you," Tony says, and twists Steve's nipple, vicious and unapologetic and perfect.

Steve lets himself moan, because there's no reason not to, and Tony loves it, Tony wriggles in his lap and eat it up with a spoon, and Steve has the good sense to claw at Tony's neck, because Tony will hold him up and Tony will treat him like he can take it. By the time Tony is done anointing them both with Patchouli, Steve is achingly hard and impossibly relaxed, and slightly concerned that he'll have to articulate his goals for the evening more clearly.

Tony sits back and reaches for the razor that was in Steve's bag.

"You love it when I don't shave," Steve protests.

Tony blinks, and jerks away from his touch. "It's not for your face."

Steve feels most of his blood rush out of his head.

"I'll chafe," he says, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"I don't care," Tony says sharply, and flicks the lever to drain the basin.

He can't be serious.

He can't be, and then he is, dark amusement dancing in his eyes, and Tony sits back on his heels and drags Steve into his lap by his thighs before Steve even knows what he's doing.

Ok.

Tony spreads Steve's legs wide open, his feet kicking over the lips of the Jacuzzi. He's practically lying down, it's so enormous, and Tony can see everything, Steve's ass is practically pressed into his lap, his own cock resting heavy on his belly, his balls a knot of pressure.

Tony pokes the base of the plug and tugs at his foreskin absently, like Steve wasn't already hard enough.

Steve moves to slap him away, a _can you not_ on the tip of his tongue, but Tony catches his wrist between his fingers and gives him a look that can only be described as _dangerous_.

"If I want you to move, I'll move you," Tony says, and runs a handful of shaving cream over Steve's balls. "Lie still."

He lies still, but the line between obedience and – caution, not fear, he trusts Tony – is hazy. He wants to watch, but he doesn't need to, it's overwhelming just to feel. There are a thousand distractions against his skin. He can feel the plug against his pulse, he _itches_, he wants more of it and none of it and all of it at the same time, it's just a tease without motion. He can feel Tony's hands, sliding a cold blade over his skin like he owns him.

"You've never done this," Tony says, not looking at his body at all, just his junk, just the soft bundle of him that he's got between one calloused palm and some five-bladed thing Steve happened to throw into his bag. It's a statement, not a question. "You'll look bigger, if that's even possible." He strips away Steve's pubes with something clinical and efficient and indifferent. Tony tugs on him, occasionally, because he can, threads strands of his dark-straw hair through his fingers and then the scratch-glide of the razor, and Steve gets harder and harder, and darker, until he's leaking over Tony's hand.

"You'll look like something people pay money for, when I'm done," Tony says, his eyes glimmering.

The noise that leaves Steve's mouth is embarrassing, for someone who does black ops for a living.

Tony pauses to run some of it over his palm and then slides more conditioner over the places he hasn't done, yet, runs his fingers behind Steve's balls, strokes, presses, pulls him taut and runs his thumb over Steve's seam. "You're lucky I'm willing to put in the effort to do this for you," Tony says. "If I were less generous, I'd turn you out for–"

"Tony-stop-talking," Steve says, in more of a moan than speech, because he's going to come, probably, all over Tony's lap.

Tony just twists his nipple and yanks on the plug again and Steve curls his toes and swallows.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, "I don't think I told you to speak."

Steve bites into his arm, instead, panting, by the time Tony is done with his balls, clenching his glutes, trying, trying, trying to stay still, to be some semblance of _restrained_, as if Tony can't see every twitch of his muscles and the fluid leaking in a warm runnel from the tip of his cock. Tony runs his hand through it, toys, idly, with Steve's foreskin because it amuses him, and Steve would like to say it's cruel, would like to beg him for something more than fleeting touches and tweaks, but Tony sees him opening his mouth and pinches him hard enough that all that comes out is a moan.

"I was saying – you're very lucky I'm willing to do this for you," Tony says, rinsing him with handfuls of warm water, and he can feel _everything_, every trickle, the rush of cool air that follows. "For someone who was hired – by the U.S. Government, no less – for attention to detail, your lack of attendance to this – most _basic_ chore – is appalling." Tony runs an impersonal hand over him, handles him like property, palms the weight of him long after he needs to.

"It's _sloppy_, Steve," he says, before he climbs out of the tub and _leaves him there_.

Steve leans his head back and groans, and wraps his hand around the base of his cock.

Tony is back in an instant, grabbing the base of the plug, and Steve really tries not to whimper.

"Control yourself," Tony says, his voice like spun silk, his own cock dark and sagging between his legs. "Get out."

Steve pulls himself to his feet, his cock obscenely dark and looking – impossibly – bigger between his legs. "I brought restraints," Steve says, swallowing, and he did, they're in the duffle bag.

"I expect you're disciplined enough not to need them," Tony breathes, inches in front of Steve's face, and still, he smells like mint. "Keep them behind your back yourself."

He steps up, into Steve, like he's slotting himself into place, and latches his mouth onto Steve's ear. "Unless you'd like to beg for them."

Steve considers it, while he pulls Tony into him, armfuls of tan and flexing arm. He'd wanted rough sex, maybe Tony throwing him into the wall, maybe pinning him with his arms behind his back. Maybe Tony choking him with his cock, but Tony is all bright eyes and clever hands and clearly wants something more elaborate.

"I didn't bring condoms," Steve says absently. It doesn't really matter, but it will be messy for both of them later if –

"Then you don't need one, do you," Tony cuts in under his breath. "No one cares about keeping a whore clean."

Steve sucks in a sharp breath.

"Was that too much," Tony deadpans, pulling back, but there's already a dark smirk sliding across his face.

He throws a towel at Steve and snaps at the floor.

"No, that was – " Steve huffs out the breath he's been holding and shifts a little, which is ridiculous, there's no friction to be had, he's still naked with his feet damp on the hardwood.

Tony smiles a wicked smile, because he knows what that was.

"You're not on your knees, Commander," he says.

Steve is on his knees under half a second.

Tony crouches, and Steve gets a whiff of shaving cream. It's still on his hands. His hair is starting to dry already, and he grabs a handful of Steve's cock and bites at his earlobe.

"Crawl into the bedroom," Tony says.

Steve snorts, and looks around. "No," he scoffs, "I'm not crawling into the bedroom–"

Tony is dragging, him, then, by the hair, and one arm.

"You asked me to damage you, Steve," he says, and Steve half crawls, half crabwalks after him while Tony rips at his hair, tries to pull his wrists off, but Tony swings a leg out and takes his knees from under him. He falls, on the carpet, not too hard, but hard enough to hiss in pain, hard enough to make him bare his teeth, and Tony smiles like he's _precious_ and grabs his wrists and drags him the meter and a half to the bed on his ass. "This is what we're doing."

Steve grabs his ankle and tears him down to the floor, and Tony's eyes go from amused to something vicious.

"No," Tony says, and slaps his wrists into a pair of wide metal cuffs that automatically hiss closed.

Tony scrambles to his feet, loops his arms under Steve's shoulders and heaves, but all Steve can think about, as Tony hooks the chain over one of the bedposts, is Tony's cock, hot and hard against his back between his shoulder blades.

"Apparently you do need them," Tony says, and runs and twisting hand through Steve's hair, once. He rifles through the bag while Steve kneels, neck craning, hands drawn up above his head, panting, his cock harder than he's ever been, he's going to die from it, he's sure. Tony pulls out brown something leather, the cock ring, maybe, an enormous tube of lube, and –

"I'm insulted," Tony says, and waves the bottle of Viagra in front of Steve's face.

"I didn't want to slow you down," Steve rasps, lilting, as Tony shakes one into his hand and pops it into his mouth.

Tony considers this, then steps in front of him.

"You don't have any wants," Tony says, "You do what I want. All I require of you is your compliance, Commander."

Steve loves him. Steve loves him, in all of his incarnations, gleaming on the battlefield, filthy and reeking and slimy in the gym beneath him on the mat, like this, dripping and sculpted with his muscles cast into shadow.

Tony smiles an indulging smile, takes hold of himself, feels around to pry Steve's lips apart.

Fucks all the way into Steve's throat on the first thrust.

Steve makes a noise, because he can't breathe properly and Tony usually likes to tease, but no, he knots his fingers in Steve's hair, he's pulling fistfuls of it out, he must be, it's enough to sting his eyes with tears. He's the perfect height for it, they're both big guys, and if Steve's hands were free, he'd be running them over Tony's ass, he'd be making love to Tony's cock with his mouth, but he can't see anything, he can't do anything, because Tony has just grabbed his head and forced him all the way down, and Steve's nose is buried in his pubes.

"_Gkk_," Steve says.

Tony reaches down to feel where Steve's throat is distended.

"Apologize," Tony says, and when Steve tries to pull back, he can't.

He does stick his tongue out as far as he can, he does close his throat in the second it takes for him to recalibrate and breathe through his nose, he does his best to collapse his mouth and hide his teeth, but Tony –

Tony says, "Get me off with your throat, Steve."

Steve feels his face flushing, feels his own cock jerk where it's resting against his thigh. He's making noises, uncontrollable animal sounds in the back of his throat where Tony's head is crammed into whatever scant space his body can provide. Drop your jaw, he remembers, and Tony just slides in further, and Steve wants to roll his eyes, even Tony knows he needs air, too, but he makes a valiant effort to swallow, chokes himself more, tilts his head back and feels his own spit sliding out of the corners of his mouth –

Tony pulls out, and Steve gasps and sputters and coughs.

"You're doing a shit job," Tony says, tilting his chin up – and how is he supposed to see anything, his damn eyes are watering – before he stuffs himself back into Steve's gaping mouth.

Tony slides a hand around under his neck, pulls him up, angles his mouth the way he wants, and thrusts. It kicks something in Steve, and his focus narrows, filters out the chill of the air on his damp skin and the throb of the plug in his ass and Tony's carefully–metered breathing above him.

He is his throat, he is muscle and tongue and he swallows, swallows again, draws his airway into a line and tilts his chin appreciatively back. He keeps his eyes open, though he can see less and less, he's sure the tears stung to his eyes are leaking, now – sure _he's_ leaking, all over his thighs, all over – and the flash of humiliation that sears through his skin also tightens his throat. He thinks he's moving his tongue, though his mouth is so full it's difficult to tell how much Tony's getting out of it.

"I'm one of the few people who could make you disappear," Tony is saying, and his balls are slick against Steve's bare chin. "I could make this your whole world."

Steve gets a glimpse of Tony's pleased mouth before he draws his hips back and _thrusts_.

"Do you want that?" Tony says.

No, he doesn't, yes, he does, sometimes, and Steve chokes, almost gags, reminds himself he's going to be perfect, it's a matter of honor, and Tony doesn't even look at him, he doesn't know why he has his eyes open, there's nothing, there's nothing but his throat and Tony's thumbs tucked up under his jaw and the taste of him, the noises Tony works from his body and the way his jaw aches and his lips are swollen and stinging.

"How does it taste," Tony pants, "Your mouth was – _ah_ – made for this, my cock just disappears down your throat, I could – _hh_ – I could blackmail you, Steve, I could ruin you with this if I wanted, oh_, oh_ –"

Tony jerks in his mouth, and pulls out enough that it hits on Steve's tongue, floods his mouth, Tony comes until Steve loses count of the seconds, of how many times he pulses.

"Fuck," Tony says, at the end of it, when Steve can taste and smell and breathe nothing but him.

Tony pulls out, and very deliberately runs his glistening cock over Steve's gasping mouth.

There's spit running down his chin. Some of it drips off into his lap in strings, and Tony wipes his hand on Steve's cheek, Tony runs his thumb over Steve's lip, at the trickle he can feel racing down his chin, and smears it back over his tongue.

"How are you doing," Tony says, poking another bead of his come back into Steve's mouth.

"I'm so glad you asked," Steve says, rasping, "After savaging me, and all–"

"I would like a color," Tony says.

"I'm very green," Steve grouses, and Tony smiles.

"Kiss me," Tony says, his voice dropped to something Steve wishes wasn't as soft as it was, and opens his mouth, licks himself out of Steve's, sucks his breath away.

"I've barely savaged you," Tony breathes, pulling away, finally.

"Well, snap to," Steve says irritably, still panting. "I wore this for you, the least you can do is–"

Tony hits him, a backhand across the cheek that sends his head snapping to the left.

"Again," Tony says. "I didn't ask you to talk."

Steve can't do this to Tony. He can use toys, he can deny him things, he can truss him up and come all over his face, but he can't _hurt _him, not for real. He can't loose his full strength on Tony's body, magnificent as it may be. He can't turn his bare hand to Tony's lovely face unless he wants to put him in the hospital.

But Tony can, and it's _so good_ that his eyes snap shut as he reels from it.

"Again," Steve says, so quietly that he thinks he half-hopes Tony won't hear.

Tony's face falters, just for a split-second, and then he's back, channeling whatever he's channeling to do this for Steve. "I'm sorry?" Tony says, whirling back to him. "Were you addressing me?"

Steve feels it stinging out from his cheekbone, the bite of it where his teeth are swimming in blood where his cheek is bleeding. The _heat_, everywhere.

"Hit me again," he says.

Tony sits on the bed, and picks up the room phone.

"Hi," he says, looking ridiculous, perched on the edge of the still-made bed, entirely naked, flushed and sheened in sweat "Could I get…a fruit platter, with chocolate strawberries? Nope. Uh – berries…yeah, perfect. In an hour. Penthouse Loft. Yep." Tony's gaze is hard, and Steve's mouth waters, his throat feels sticky when he swallows, he wants Tony's mouth on his again.

Tony gets back up, and kneels in front of him. His cock is starting to show interest, again, though he's nowhere as hard as he was. He puts his hand around Steve's throat and yanks his hair back with the other hand.

"Look at me," Tony says, and how can Steve not, his eyes snap to Tony's like they're magnetized.

"I want you to do something for me," Tony says, "and if you do it well, I'll fuck you until you cry, after."

"Yes," Steve says, dazed, or starting to be, the edges of Tony's voice flowing into a crisp line that heats him.

"Are you ok– "

"_Yes_," Steve says, and he's almost annoyed. "I'm green, I'm fine, think Jen green, Tony, just do it_–_"

"There's a flogger in the bag," Tony says. "Do you want me to use that, or are you content for me to throw you around?"

"Whatever you want," Steve says. "Just–"

He falters. He doesn't know how to ask for that. He wants to tear his head away from Tony's hold just to feel the pain on his scalp. He wants Tony to spit on his face. He wants him to be angry.

"Tell me," Tony says sharply, "or we don't do this."

"Just use your hands," Steve says, in a rush. "Use your hands, please, forget the flogger." He wants to be touched, desperately, he wants Tony's confident, dexterous hands dealing him pain.

Tony makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and yanks the titanium chain holding his cuffs together.

He doesn't weigh that much more than Steve does, and Steve is perpetually impressed – when they're sparring, when they're fighting, whenever Tony walks through, clanking in his armor. He's so _strong_, hewn from years of manipulating metal and constantly heaving image and expectation and betrayal off his back –

Tony gives him bruises, banging him along the footboard as he drags him onto the bed and pulls him to kneeling in the middle of the mattress, and Steve very fiercely loves this man.

He lunges forward, to kiss him, his hands splayed awkwardly in the cuffs in front of him. Tony doesn't push him away, but he tangles a hand in Steve's hair and wrenches until Steve whimpers, _bites_ into the flesh of his mouth, and he shouldn't, but he does, and he's licking away the blood that's still welling up where his teeth have smashed into his lip.

"You have a problem," Tony says, as he slides his thighs wide, slides his hands back to grasp at Steve's ass, slides them up to adjust his back so he's ramrod straight and his toes are curled out behind him. "This job has made you dour."

"I'm not dour–"

"–that's why–" Tony ducks, wriggles himself underneath Steve's bound hands and comes up with Steve's arms around his neck – "you're always like this, when we're together, now. What _is it_," Tony says, and it's not Tony playing a role, anymore, it's just Tony, stubborn and domineering and everything Steve wants to bury himself inside. "Is it that you work in the dark, now? You don't get any of the satisfaction? There's no one to even see to appreciate you?"

Steve tries to bury his face in Tony's neck and Tony jerks his head back instead.

"Or is it –" Tony sits back on his heels, Steve's chain draped around his neck, "Is it that you really wanna be running around with the shield, and you _decided _that it was gonna be him, and now you want it back?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Steve moans.

"Well, I think it needs talking about," Tony says, and starts palming him again. "And we're doing what I want, remember?" He kneels between Steve's legs, rubs his thumb in slow circles over Steve's head, draws his foreskin up and down and it feels like the edge of heaven. "Is it your team?"

"My team is fine," Steve growls. "My team is better than your – _unf_, _ungh, Tony, please_–_"_

_"_Please what–"

"Follow your own damn rules and stop talking shop," Steve grates out.

"You're doing things you don't want to be doing," Tony says, like it's dawning on him only now, drawing a slow hand over Steve's cock like it's an afterthought. "You're doing the dirty work you hate, that's what it is–"

"I fought in wars," Steve says sharply. "It has nothing to do with it, it's the world we live in–"

"–my words, not yours–"

"Yes," Steve snaps. "Your words."

He looks up, _found_, and Tony is looking back with something perilously close to pity on his face, and Steve can't do this, he's pissed, he's furious, and Tony is so close to him that Steve can feel his breath as he shifts and huffs and fists himself to throbbing and red.

"My words," Tony says, and sidles up, closer, closer, until Steve can see the intricate patterns to his irises, his eyes are so rapt and bright and blue, a brighter blue than his own, he insists, and Tony's hair is perfect, his face is perfect, and Steve fists his hands into the soft hair at the nape of his neck–

Tony catches his jaw in an uppercut, unpulled, and Steve's ears ring with it.

"I'm going to use you now," Tony says, and Steve's head is sagging on his shoulder, doesn't know what Tony means, maybe he's going to take them both in his hand, maybe he's going to rub off on Steve's body, or –

Tony fumbles between them, for a minute, and then slides Steve's foreskin back over both of them.

Steve lets out a noise that's halfway between a low wail and a grunt, because Tony is moving his hand, twisting his dexterous mechanic's wrist just so, and Steve can feel _everything_, the velvet silk of his foreskin and the slightest weight of Tony's fingers and the slight rasp of the head of Tony's cock against his perfectly smooth crown.

He has no time, no time to react, his whole body arches without his consent, no time to think or protest or even consciously register that Tony is _using him_ like a fleshlight –

"If you come before you get me off, I won't be kind," Tony says, and his mouth is hanging open. Steve wants to say it isn't fair, and it's not – Tony's far less sensitive than he is, and cut, he doesn't understand, there's no way he can, Steve_ physically can't_ –

"Tony, you're not," Steve is protesting, "you don't understand, _I can't–_"

"You can," Tony gasps, his mouth fallen open and slick and red, and Steve buries his face in Tony's neck and whines. "Buck up," Tony hisses, and _slides his fucking hand_ over them both, again. "This has nothing to do with you, Commander."

Steve looks up, in disbelief, looking like a tramp, he's sure, his lips are bruised and swollen and there's still spit slick on his chin.

Tony's not even looking at him, his eyes are closed, he's lost, he's jerking his hand over them both like he does when he's getting himself off in the shower, single-minded focus like he can't hear Steve gasping against his own shoulder, and Steve hates him, Tony knows exactly what he's doing, and being ignored should not send fire through him, like this, _god –_

Steve comes, and swears.

"What did I _say_?" Tony says sharply, and wrenches Steve's head back, but it's half gasp.

Steve is shuddering, answering is a joke, words are a Herculean task. He's still pulsing, and there's nothing like this, it's sublime, thank god he's intact because _Christ_, he's moaning, still, his whole body is wrung, and they're still attached and it's oozing out around Tony's fingers –

Tony runs Steve's skin over Steve's glans, just his, and it's hell wrapped up in ecstasy.

"Pleaseno," Steve gasps.

Tony does it again, and Steve whimpers, low and snarling and _begging_ all at once, clings to Tony hard enough that there might be marks on the back of his neck where the chain's bitten into him, but he doesn't care, _god_, his body is thrown open and every nerve is a live wire –

"Tony, Tony, _Tony_," Steve is saying, "stop, stop touching me, _stop–_"

Tony drags him into a brutal kiss, and _they're still joined_.

Steve's mouth keeps begging, until he can't, because Tony thrusts his tongue into his mouth and there's _nothing he can do_ but cling and whimper and moan as Tony strokes his hair back from his eyes, as Tony pulls and shifts and every jerk is amplified, every movement runs down Steve's cock and coils in his belly –

"Don't touch me?" Tony snarls, and eases Steve's skin back so he can pull away. "You _exist_ for me to touch you, here."

Steve's lap catches most of the mess, but Tony's got a handful, and he slips his thumb into Steve's mouth until it's itching at the back of his throat. Ruts into Steve's stomach and fits himself into Steve's lap, hisses _suck_ into his ear.

Steve sucks, fits his tongue around the perfect shape of Tony's. Tony watches, fiercely proud, his eyes bright and angry and evil, Tony watches as he reaches to twist Steve's nipple until his eyes are watering in pain. "It's your favorite thing," Tony is hissing, and he _gasps_ around Tony's thumb when he feels the plug being pulled out of him. Tony sits in his lap and latches his mouth onto him like an octopus, moving them together, drawing ragged groans from Steve's mouth, biting his teeth into the flesh of Steve's shoulders –

Tony ducks out. Steve sags; Tony was the only thing holding him up, his whole body feels wrung and loose and he's getting hard again and doesn't want it, all he wants is for Tony to lie him down on the bed and curl his body around him, it's half way to his lips when Tony _shoves_ him, from behind, and there's nothing to do but bow.

Tony pulls the plug free, finally, and Steve's body lets it go with a filthy sucking sound.

"I told you not to come," Tony says, and works his fingers into Steve's ass.

Steve does half a push-up, intends to bend around to watch, wants to see, Tony, behind him, Tony, pistoning his beautiful hand in and out of his body, and –

And Tony slams him down again, leans his full weight onto Steve's back, bars him down with a broad arm against his equally broad shoulder blades. It's not comfortable, his face is mashed into the bed and his hands are trapped beneath him, and his ass is in the air, and Tony plunges his fingers into him roughly enough that he'd like to be skittering away on all fours. He knows, feels it slithering in his belly, if he glanced back, Tony wouldn't even be looking at him –

"Stay down," Tony hisses, and _thrusts_, and Steve is so open, lube and sweat and filth running down his thighs. He could never do this to Tony, not the way Tony is scraping the inside of him, not the way – god, he's got three fingers crammed into him, it's bigger than the plug and Tony has big fingers and he didn't use more lube, he intends for it to hurt, and Steve wants to say _wait_ and _Tony_ but all that comes out of his mouth is animal panting, and Tony would just say _be careful what you wish for, Commander_, and he's so hard his cock is brushing the duvet.

Tony jerks at his hair hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he loves it, he arches up and pushes back and how did he even get here, to trust Tony behind him with half of his hand up his ass? "That plug barely did anything," Tony says, and pivots his wrist like he's trying to touch all of him, every inch, and Steve's cock is dripping onto the covers and he doesn't even _care_ because it feels like Tony is pulling him apart, Tony knows every inch of him and it's too much and not enough and Steve is saying things, _please _and _Tony_ and _just fuck me, just, fuck, Tony, please _–

Then it turns into _ungh ungh ungh_ because Tony has passed some length of fabric between his teeth, it's something – it's one of their ties, it tastes like silk, it's so fucking _gratuitous_, there's rope in the bag, but Tony hitches it back and Steve's head jerks, he pulls himself up on shaky arms because Tony wants his head high, Tony is holding the ends in one hand like _reins_ and lining up with the other hand –

"Stay up," Tony says, close to his ear, and the hand on his hip is suddenly firm, clawing, _warm_ –

An aborted scream tears out of Steve's throat as Tony's hand _sears_ on his hip, and that's when Tony decides to push into his body.

Steve's body opens, and it must be more shock than relaxation. Every inch he thought he'd gained with the plug, with Tony stretching him is _nothing_, he feels it all again, every centimeter it takes Tony to push inside him, the give of his body and the _heat_ that spirals up in him as Tony bottoms out and _stops_. He wants to sag, but Tony is yanking the tie back, Tony _touches_ the burn he's made and Steve should be screaming and all he can think is _more_, he thinks he would lie here forever if Tony would just move in him, he would lie here forever, open for this, if Tony asked him for that –

"I can make that happen anywhere on your body," Tony tells him, and then something tears, sharp and clawing, through the skin on his back. Steve arches, and he can't turn his head, it feels like the pain is ripping through him through and he shudders, he's bleeding, what is Tony _doing_ –

Tony's hand moves to his shoulder, and he catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

Steve moans, and Tony slams his body back to meet his thrusts.

Tony is shaking the bed. Steve wishes he could see, Tony is magnificent like this, he's bottoming out every time and he's strong enough to rock them both with it. It's all Steve can do to brace against the bed, he can't breathe for the pleasure of it, and Tony's metal hand slips down to twist at his balls, and it's _agony _and it could be so much _worse_, Tony could rip him apart if he wanted.

"I could burn you here," Tony says, and he runs a finger around Steve's bare cock and Steve chokes and splutters and he must be drooling, he's wretched and every muscle in him is flexing. "I could _ruin _you," he says, and traces Steve's rim, jerks his neck back when he moans for it, he can't help it.

_Ruin me_, Steve thinks, but Tony is thinking his thoughts for him.

"What if I didn't let you at all," Tony grunts, and it is a grunt, inarticulate and strained, and Steve can feel every slap of Tony's balls against his. "What if I didn't let you come," he says, and Steve can't answer, he isn't meant to, and this is what he asked for, this is everything he's asked for. "That's what you spy types are supposed to be known for, right," Tony purrs, and Steve just about shudders off the side of the bed before Tony slaps him a little and plants his head firmly back into the comforter and slows his thrusts to excruciating, all the way in, deep enough to knock the breath from his lungs. "Discipline? Restraint?" He punctuates every word with a thrust, just because he _can_, Steve knows, Tony likes shallower thrusts, but he'll do it this way, hard and fast and violent, he'll do it for Steve.

"I guess I have to do everything for you," Tony snaps, and scrape-slashes his gauntleted hand down Steve's back again.

Something weak-sounding makes it out of Steve's mouth.

"Tighten up," Tony says sharply, and snaps his head back up with a jerk on the tie in his mouth, "I know you can, you work out fucking everywhere, Ca – Commander, be a good hole and clench for me, sloppiness isn't your style, I've seen you work –"

He should hate it, he should hate this, he needs to be able to manage without this, and all that's in his head is _tighter_, for Tony –

Snap, snap, snap, and Tony's balls slap on his. Tony is opening him up with his cock; he's barely stretched, he's barely lubed, in all honesty – save for what was on the plug and his _come_ on Tony's cock, but it's so _good_, it feels raw, Tony doesn't care about hurting him, Tony doesn't even care that he's there, Tony is using him hard and fast and rough and Steve smiles something loose and effortless behind the tie, closes his eyes and falls, lets his body go, wants Tony to slide into him forever –

He makes a noise, not speech, but some pathetic try for it, some desperate lunge of his tongue against the silk. Tears, spilling out of his eyes all on their own, he doesn't know how not to, and Tony yanks the thing out of his mouth irritably. He fists his hand in Steve's hair, the metal one, and Steve flinches, Steve thinks _let me_, moans like a whore –

"This is the problem, isn't it," Tony hisses, and puts the gauntlet over Steve's mouth, graciously allows him a thumb to suck on again. "_I'm not on your team_ _anymore_."

Steve comes before he can ask Tony to let him.

* * *

Steve is lying on his back, and Tony is sprawled out next to him, naked, half-hard, smelling of soap, poking a piece of pineapple into his mouth.

Steve starts to feel his back again, and hisses in pain.

"Yep," Tony says, and runs a fond hand over Steve's stomach. "Eat this, look, there's like ten pounds of berries, here–"

Steve lets his head fall back into the pillow and stares up at the ceiling, and has an unfathomable urge to bury his face and never look at anyone ever again.

That's not an option, though, because Tony's hand is hovering near his mouth, dripping pineapple juice down his chin and onto his throat.

"How you doing," Tony says, and he looks legitimately concerned.

Steve plucks the pineapple out of his fingers and scarfs it. Tony is right; he twists to see an enormous fruit platter next to the bed, and an enormous plate of chocolate-covered strawberries beside it.

"You didn't have to do this," Steve sighs.

"Uh-huh," Tony says. "Well, I marked you up pretty good, the least I can do is feed you."

Steve rolls up on his side, dips down to peck Tony on the forehead before he –

"Hey," Tony says, and grabs his wrist, now free of the cuffs but for a faint pink line where the edge dug into his skin. "Don't be an ass."

Steve rolls back onto what feels like his mess of a back with a huff.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "I shouldn't have asked you for that."

Tony frowns. "I'm ok. I'm happy to tell you you're a worthless little shit and rough you around. You know that. You were great," he soothes.

"I don't want to talk about it," Steve says.

"Yeah," Tony says. "'Cause that always works out so well for us."

Steve covers his eyes with his hand. "Thank you," he says.

Tony slithers up on him, ever go gently, mindful of where he puts his weight. He traces the line of Steve's neck. He splays his hand out over where Steve can feel his heart beating like none of this ever happened.

"Eat more fruit," Tony says, and lunges to get a handful of blueberries. "I don't know where they got these, they're not in season–"

"Oh my god," Steve says, and swats his hand away. "I'm not dropping, I'm just–"

"–irritating," Tony finishes for him.

Steve scoops the rest of the blueberries in Tony's hand into his mouth.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Tony says, "but this is not a _quickie_. You are not some – you can't just walk out like nothing is wrong–"

"I'm not walking out," Steve murmurs, and pulls Tony flat onto his chest. "That's not in dispute. Do you want a massage?"

Tony stares at him like he's forgotten speech.

"I'm sorry," Tony says. "I shouldn't have brought work stuff up."

Steve grabs a handful of Tony's ass and enjoys the swoop of his back and adjusts him so Tony's leg falls between Steve's thighs. His fingertips find the knots between Tony's shoulder blades, and press, light circles that make Tony stretch like a cat and bury his face in Steve's neck.

Tony stills. "You're shivering," he says.

Steve tugs the sheets – damp, but they aren't dirty because they were fucking on top of the duvet – up over both of them, and holds Tony to his chest.

"I meant I shouldn't have sprung it on you," Steve says. "When I said I shouldn't have asked."

Tony sighs into his chest. "I love you," he says. He makes a half-assed attempt at kissing his chest without moving his head.

"You know I love you," Steve murmurs into his hair.

"I'm not gone," Tony says. "And I'm not going. I'm right here. No matter what losers you have on your team, you can come back to this."

Steve cradles him, and doesn't ruin it.


End file.
